


The Night Shift

by a_nonny_moose



Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 06:35:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11285682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: A one-off of the Egos receiving a call to come work at Freddy's for a night. What could go wrong?





	The Night Shift

Wilford was the first one to reach the phone.   
Mark and the rest of Teamiplier had left in a hurry after the Googles’ attempt at playing FNAF resulted in yet another destroyed computer, amid yells, static, and smoke.   
Over the clamoring of the other Egos, Wilford held the phone out of their reach and yelled, “Hello, you’ve reached the office of Markiplier! This is the one and only Wilford Warfstache, how can I assist–”  
“Hello? Hello-o?”  
“Yes, how can I–”  
“Hello?”  
With a shout, the other Egos fell silent. “HOW CAN I HELP YOU?!” Wilford glared at the rest of them before turning to the phone, setting it to speaker.  
“Yes, hello. Can you come in for a shift tonight? We’re short on crew today, and–”  
“I don’t think–,” Google_B started, leaning closer to the mouthpiece, but Wilford spoke quickly over him.   
“We’ll be there!”  
“Wait, we–?”  
Wilford hung up with a defiant click.   
“Wilford, I don’t believe that this is the best idea.” Google_R was frowning, Google_B fuming besides him. The smoke coming from the top of his head made Bim cough.  
“I t-think that G-Google is right,” Bim said, blinking. “That’s the pizzeria, right? Even Mark won’t go back there!”  
“What do you mean, ‘even Mark,’“ Wilford said, raising an eyebrow. “We’re just as level-headed, just as even-tempered as he is. And–” he ignored a snort from Oliver, “–if you want to be a wuss, Bim, you can stay home. I’m going. It’ll be fun, and Warfstache don’t take no shit from nobody.”  
Bim and the Googles looked at each other, shrugging. “If Wilford will insist on going,” Oliver stated, “It appears we cannot stop him. However, I would advise against going alone.”  
“I’ll bring Hosty with me,” he said, eyes wide, snapping his suspenders.   
“No, Will.”  
“Who asked you, Doc?” Wilford turned to where the Doctor was leaning against the door, watching the show.   
“You can’t take Host to that deathtrap of a workplace, and I sincerely doubt that he’d agree, anyway.” Dr. Iplier stared his pink counterpart down, annoyed. Getting himself in trouble is one thing, he thought, but dragging the rest of us into it?  
“The Host has no interest in accompanying Wilford to Freddy Fazbear’s.” The Host’s voice echoed down the hall, and the Doctor smirked, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.   
Wilford rolled his eyes. “One of the Googles, then,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at them.   
Oliver frowned. “I, for one, am not interested in babysitting.” His voice was more scathing than Wilford thought was appropriate, but before he could retaliate, Google_B interjected.  
“If anyone should accompany Wilford, I believe it should be one of us. As it is, the Host and Darkiplier have recused themselves, and Bim and the Doctor have proved themselves unwilling to go–”  
“Hold on, who said I wasn’t going?” Dr. Iplier spoke from the doorway again, moving farther into the room. “If Wilford might get hurt, he’s going to need someone who knows what they’re doing with him. I’ll go.”  
Google_G shook his head. “This is, categorically speaking, a bad idea.”  
And that’s how 12am found Wilford, in an altogether too enthusiastic pink security uniform; Dr. Iplier with a first-aid kit and a scowl; and Google_G, impassive as ever, staring up at the flickering “Pizza!” sign outside Freddy Fazbear’s.   
“For the record,” Google_G grumbled, holding the door for the other two, “I was forced to come with you imbeciles.”  
“Lighten up, Google,” Dr. Iplier scolded, following a prancing Wilford into the office. “It’s only a few hours, after all. How much could happen in six hours?”  
The answer, apparently, was a lot. After Wilford shot the phone for ringing too loudly, and the Doctor and Google had managed to confiscate his pistol as well as a smaller gun tucked into his waistband, the three tried to settle in for a long night. Wilford found a small tablet on the desk, and Google and Dr. Iplier left him to his devices as they explored the rest of the office.   
Dr. Iplier had just poked his head out the door to try and locate the source of the shuffling noise when an alarm blared. Google_G grabbed the Doctor’s collar just in time to pull him back as Wilford slammed the door shut like a guillotine.   
“Wha– What the fuck–”  
“Shhh.” Wilford was gripping the tablet with whitened knuckles, staring intently at the screen.   
Google_G picked up the Doctor from the floor and, with a nod, hurried over to peer over Wilford’s shoulder. “It would appear that we have a problem.”  
Dr. Iplier huffed, brushing himself off, and looked at the clock.   
1am.  
Walking over, he saw a flash of static, eyes, teeth, on the tablet’s screen. “Wilford, what is that?”  
“It’s a camera feed,” he whispered, and the Doctor saw, with shock, that even Wilford had gone stiff. “This,” Wilford said, pointing, “is right outside the office.”  
Google_G leaned closer to see–   
“Is that a duck?” Dr. Iplier’s voice was shaking with laughter and fear.  
“It would appear to be an animatronic chicken,” Google_G said, brow furrowing. “I believe it is not on, and yet…” He trailed off as the screen flickered on and off, and the figure jerked unnaturally.  
“Whatever it is,” Dr. Iplier sighed, brushing his hair back, “we should be fine as long as the door’s down, right?”  
“That would be correct– however–”  
“It takes power to keep the door down,” Wilford muttered darkly. “And our power is… limited.”  
“Well, how much do we have left?”  
“About 80%, I estimate,” Google_G said, frowning. “I believe it is safe to open the door now, and it would be wise to keep an eye on the cameras.   
Wilford nodded, opening the door with a clang. The three sat in silence, broken only by the soft feed of static from the tablet. What on earth have we gotten ourselves into?  
2am, then 3am came and went. Wilford, trigger-happy as ever, pulled down the door a few more times, but nothing happened. Google_G, straining his hearing, could hear shuffling and crashing down the hallway, from elsewhere in the building, but decided not to upset the Doctor any more. As it was, he was dozing fitfully against the wall, jerking awake every few seconds in fear.   
At 4am, Wilford spoke. “How’re we doing on power, Googs?”  
“I would estimate we have 20% left, which should be sufficient for the next two hours, unless–” Google_G turned his head sharply, and Dr. Iplier jolted awake.  
Wilford began frantically pushing buttons on the tablet, a steady, loud clanging coming closer and closer down the hall.   
Google rose slowly, quietly, and drew Wilford’s gun, pointing it at the open door. “Close it, hurry.”  
Dr. Iplier hissed,”Wilford, what are you doing? Close it!”  
“It won’t–” Wilford stuttered, panicky. “I don’t even know what–”  
“Shut. The. Door.” The words came out louder than Google_G intended, and the clanging grew louder, faster. Running.  
Google_G took a step towards the door, and the Doctor could hear the tiny whirr of his finger squeezing the trigger–  
With a crash that made the three of them jump, Wilford had finally found the right button. From the other side of the door came a banging, hard, brief, and Google_G blinked in confusion.   
The clanks receded down the hallway again, and Dr. Iplier turned to the other two. “What was that?”  
Wilford pointed wordlessly to the screen, and the Doctor and Google looked over to see yet another animatronic, peeking out from behind a pair of purple curtains.   
“Whatever it is,” Google_G said, reholstering the gun, “it sapped some the power. We are now at, I estimate, less than 10%.”  
The clock chimed, and the three turned.  
5am.  
One more hour couldn’t possibly be that bad, right?” Dr. Iplier swept his hair out of his eyes. “Right?”  
They stood in silence, broken only by Google_G’s glare at Wilford. “If you hadn’t dragged us here in the first place–”  
“You mean to tell me you aren’t enjoying this?” Wilford was suddenly smiling again, all wiggles and deviousness.   
Google_G looked between the Doctor and Wilford in disbelief. “Do you mean to say that you are?”  
“Of course!” Wilford stood up, casting the tablet aside, and stretched. “Murder is in the air, Google! It’s positively delightful.” Pulling a dagger from some hidden location, he gesticulated. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time!”  
Dr. Iplier pinched his nose and sighed, looking over at the closed door. “’Fun’ is not exactly how we’d describe it, Will. And, frankly–”  
Wilford and the Doctor jumped as the alarm sounded again, louder, before plunging the building into darkness.   
Google_G powered up his flashlight with a quiet whirr. Hie eyes glowed as he glared at Wilford, who was looking guiltily back at the tablet he’d thrown aside. “The building’s power is at 0%.”  
The Doctor turned slowly to look at the door, now gaping open. With a glance at Warfstache, now holding his dagger and facing the door in trepadition,, he gestured to Google_G.   
Google_G pulled out the two guns they’d taken from Wilford and handed one to Dr. Iplier. Together, the three of them faced the doorway.  
Dr. Iplier’s breath caught in his throat as shuffling steps sounded from the hallway. He gripped the gun tighter, the metal cold and unfamiliar in his hands. I don’t want to shoot, he thought, but a smaller voice in his head reminded him, they’re robots, and it’s you or them. He glanced at Google_G, a robot, who’d insisted on coming to protect them, now standing, pointing Wilford’s gun at a dark doorway. He had to shoot.  
A dark shadow appeared in the doorway. The Doctor steadied himself, heard, rather than saw, Google_G’s finger twitch on the trigger–  
With a loud whoop, Wilford dashed forward to sink his dagger into the figure. Google_G dropped his gun, cursing loudly, and ran forward; his chest illuminated Wilford, blood-covered, eyes crazed, and the prone figure of what was definitely not an animatronic.   
Dr. Iplier was frozen for only a moment, but as Google_G dragged Wilford back, he saw the blood. In a moment, the gun was cast aside and he was kneeling by the victim’s side, first-aid kit in hand.   
“Wilford, you’re an idiot,” he hissed, spotting a now blood-stained broom.  
Google_G had his arms around Wilford’s waist, moving the two of them backwards as Wilford swung his dagger widely. He could feel the skin on his arms ripping, the dagger scraping across his metal skeleton. A wire gave way, but Google_G held tight until Wilford, exhausted, slumped in his arms. The Doctor looked up.  
“I stopped the bleeding, but we need to go. Now. The police will be on the way, and it’s already 6am.”  
Google nodded, and motioned to him. They each took one of Wilford’s arms over their shoulders and, stepping carefully over the janitor, made their way out of the building towards home in the growing light.


End file.
